


Twelve Minutes and Twenty Three Seconds in Heaven

by Siria



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-19
Updated: 2010-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Booth sighed, head dropping back against the wall. "Can we just leave the anthropology out of things for once? Please?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Minutes and Twenty Three Seconds in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hebrew_hernia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hebrew_hernia).



Booth sighed, head dropping back against the wall. "Can we just leave the anthropology out of things for once? Please?"

Brennan frowned at him. "I _am_ an anthropologist, Booth. It's my job to engage in the study of humanity," she said, sounding far too focused for someone whose cheeks were flushed and hair rumpled from making out in a supply closet. "And as it's a field which frequently requires participant-observation, I think it would be remiss of me if I didn't note—"

"See, this is another thing!" Booth said. "You using words like 'remiss' and 'participant-observation' when we're making out. That's just—it's—"

"I was not aware of a social taboo against those particular words in a situation where sexual congress is a probability," Brennan said. "Is this a regional taboo, or more widespread throughout North America?"

Booth would have found it easier to glare at her if she hadn't been idly scratching the nape of his neck with her fingernails—Brennan knew that drove him crazy, had speculated more than once about a quirk of neurological hardwiring that meant that the scrape of her blunt nails against the hair there could push him from zero to panting in less than five seconds.

"Doing this on purpose," he accused her, giving in to temptation and letting his hands push up beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. Beneath his palms, her belly was warm, and Booth grinned, pushing closer to him.

"I am not," she said. Seen this close, her smile was dazzling—Booth was more than aware that there must be a dopey, answering grin on his own face.

"Are too," he said, as she loosened his tie and set about the serious business of kissing his throat. He moved his hands up to cup her breasts, feeling her nipples taut beneath the thin fabric.

"Trying to drive me crazy with your big words and that big ole brain of yours and that—"

"'Remiss' is hardly a word which indicates the possession of an impressively large vocabulary," Brennan protested. "And as for my previous observations on the evolutionary advantages of kissing—"

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Booth said, reaching around to unhook her bra. "It's so, so hot that you're smart, but then you have to use those smarts to talk about things like _germs_ and _anthropological observations_ when we're making out."

"I am merely pointing out some recent scientific discoveries!" Brennan said. She threw his now unfastened tie to the ground and started to unbutton his shirt with deft fingers. "Not only does foreplay increase my endorphin levels and induce a general level of well-being, but by coming into contact with your specific strain of cytomegalovirus through the exchange of saliva, I increase my level of immunity to any virii which you harbour."

Booth closed his eyes. Maybe if he started to hum something—like a rousing chorus of 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame'—it would distract him from the fact that his girlfriend had just stuck her hand down the front of his pants while talking about the _germs_ in his _spit_.

"And consequently," Brennan continued, blithely unconcerned at how Booth's breath was starting to hitch as she stroked him, "any offspring of ours would have both its parents' particular forms of acquired immunity."

Booth's eyes flew open. "Wait, what, back up to the— _what_?"

"Cytomegalovirus," Brennan said. "Commonly known as the human herpes virus, and—"

Booth squinted at her. "You _really_ think that's what I wanted clarification on, here?"

Brennan tilted her head to one side. "Oh. You're concerned that you might have impregnated me, when we had unprotected coitus in my office?"

"Well—"

"Or the time on your couch. Well, technically _times_ , plural, since you ejaculated inside me twice, but both occurred within the scope of one sexual encounter."

Booth wondered if it was too late to start a novena to St Jude—if ever a case was hopeless, this one would seem to qualify.

"It's okay," she continued. "I'm not pregnant. I'm merely trying to prepare adequately for the statistical probability that we will have a child together someday, given your tendency towards monogamy with those for whom you have an emotional attachment, and my desire to procreate. Though," she said frowning, "I'm reconsidering right now. Booth, why are you banging your head against the shelving unit? If you induce brain trauma, I am far less likely to consider you a valuable sexual partner, even if the injury would not be an inheritable trait."

Booth took a deep breath. "Could we just get back to the making out? Please? No more discussion of anthropological whatsits or statistical whozits or—"

"Whozits?"

"—or evolutionary advantages. Because the making out is a lot more fun and I like doing it with you, okay? I'm here because of you, Bones, you got that, right? No advanced scientific reasoning required." He tucked a wayward curl of her hair behind her ear, and tried not to feel like an idiot when she pressed her cheek into the palm of his hand and his stomach flip-flopped. That was his Bones—acted like she was an observer from Mars most of the time, and then sometimes she did something so instinctively, that spoke of such a deep capacity for affection, that it was hard to breathe for how much he loved her.

Bones checked her wristwatch. "I have twelve minutes and twenty three seconds, minimum, before Cam will start to wonder where I am. I'm entirely amenable to spending that time in the exchange of mutual—"

There probably was some technical anthropological term for what they were about to do—some Greek-derived word that summed up the meaning of the way Booth ran the tip of his finger along the line of her collarbone and lower; some long Latin phrase that articulated the gasp Brennan made when they pressed hip to hip—but Booth ignored all that and did the smart thing. He shut up and kissed her.


End file.
